


Crown my desire and fulfil my bliss

by Gwerfel



Series: Slimy things did crawl [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Carnivale (The Terror), First Time, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Content, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: Contrary to the belief amongst the crew - a belief shared by most of the officers, he supposes - John Irving is not a joyless man. He is as fond of play as anyone.Irving prepares for carnivale while contemplating his solitude and the limits of his faith.Sequel to 'Slimy things did crawl with legs, upon the slimy sea'.
Relationships: William Gibson/Lt John Irving
Series: Slimy things did crawl [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885081
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	Crown my desire and fulfil my bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Billy Gibson 4eva, OK?! 
> 
> Thanks and love to my partner in boat crimes, my sea wife and most esteemed friend, kt_fairy for listening to my every up and down while writing this, and for every bit of reassurance and encouragement.

_"Now well do I remember where I first met Maggie May,_

_She was cruising up and down in Canning Place._

_She was dressed up mighty fine, like a frigate of the line,_

_So being a ranting sailor I gave chase...”_

Strident voices bellow out from the fo’c’sle, clattering against the bulkhead like empty tin cans as the rousing tune is taken up by each seaman and one by one they find a rolling harmony. 

From man to man the shanty carries through the ship, a rollicking squall rough enough to slough away the stagnant air below decks. The lanterns are swinging and the atmosphere is charged with bright expectation. Space is made and trunks are thrown open, men crowd about wash basins while gay garments are tossed over heads and jubilant feet stamp against the deck. 

_“I kept right on her track, she went on the other tack,_

_But I caught her and I broke her mizzen line._

_Next morning I awoke with a head more bent than broke,_

_No coat, no vest, no trousers could I find..."_

  
  


Alone in his still and muggy berth, John Irving smiles. 

Singing being unavoidable where sailors are concerned, and especially inescapable when there is a celebration on the horizon, Irving reflects that this particular arrangement isn’t as lewd as it might be, which bodes well for the evening. The song could be construed as a cautionary tale, he argues with himself, swallowing another gulp of claret; there is a moral lesson in it. 

Of course he'd rather they sang about something more wholesome, but after three years away from home there is very little which excites them as much, and as Mr Blanky is so fond of reminding him; let them have their fun if it does no harm. Fun is the order of the evening, after all.

He drinks again, deeply, feeling the flush warm his neck and cheeks all at once. Fortifying. There is almost half a bottle sitting on his desk; the last of his personal stores after having donated the remaining three cases to the evening's frivolities.

Let them call him a bore for that, he thinks to himself as he finishes drying his face at the wash stand and turns unsteadily to face his desk chair, where his costume stands upright and waiting. The rigid wings wink at him in the lamplight, rows of feathers glimmering like scales on a golden fish.

Like his fellow officers, John had some pressing reservations about Captain Fitzjames’ plan for a carnivale, particularly with Terror’s own captain incapacitated and the problem of the ever dwindling provisions growing harder to ignore with each passing day (four hundred tins found spoiled since last Sunday, salt pork almost entirely gone, salt beef shortly to follow, one hundred and fifty gallons of utterly useless lemon juice - Irving’s head aches with numbers). Nevertheless, as he listens to the ebullient crew preparing for an evening of festivities - not only singing now, but full-throated whoops of laughter - he can finally see the wisdom in the enterprise, and he would be a very sorry sort indeed to begrudge the crew for making merry after the winter they’ve had. 

He drains the last of his glass and savours the rosy summer taste on his tongue. His bible lies open on his berth. At this time of day he would usually be reading from it - but he has managed to complete it four times already on this expedition, and could forgive himself for forgoing one evening. Besides, the claret has slowed his thoughts too much, and the racket echoing up from the fo’c’sle is only growing louder.

_If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus, what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not? let us eat and drink; for tomorrow…_

An odd murky gurgle begins in his chest and rolls upwards, and Irving realises he is laughing. At what, he has no idea. Perhaps no more wine, his eyes are dim, the candles blur as though the bright flames have been smeared with lard. _And be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; but be filled with the Spirit._ He chuckles again, giddy as a boy.

Contrary to the belief amongst the crew - a belief shared by most of the officers, he supposes - John Irving is not a joyless man. He is as fond of play as anyone. After all, he thinks to himself, eyeing the wings and the halo sitting on top of his closed ledger on the desk, if he is really so lacking in humour then surely he would not have agreed to the disguise with such good nature.

"We saved it for you, Lieutenant," Sergeant Tozer had held the wings up to him from where he squatted over the costume box, "we could think of no one else as deserving."

Irving has learnt to accept such ribbing with grace and dignity. It had always been so, ever since his early voyages - of course, that was much worse. He and his friends had been harried by crew and officers alike as midshipmen - because of their devoutness; the fervency of their faith. “It is only that we shame them,” his friend John Percy would often declare, “by the light of our example all of their faults are cast into relief - they hate us for it, but they know we are right.” 

At the time, John agreed vigorously with Percy and held his head up during Sunday Service, contemptuously turning the other cheek. This no doubt provided even more fodder for their tormentors - it certainly didn’t silence them. 

He raises his glass to his lips again, tipping it back before realising it is empty. Feeling faintly absurd, he sets it back down on his desk, within the circle of the tarnished halo. He catches sight of himself in the little square of mirror beside his washbasin, cheeks pink and eyes shining. That was his third glass since dinner. He ought to practice better temperance - but of course there will be plenty of time for that after tonight. 

Strangely, it is the words of his earthly father that ring in his head now -"If I've one word of advice for ye, son," the old man had mumbled one evening when John was a boy, "Never drink alone."

Though there have been many ways in which Irving had disappointed his father since that simple wisdom was imparted - the ill-fated sojourn in Australia, his failure to settle on a wife, his sluggish and reluctant progress through the ranks - he can say with perfect innocence that he had only ever imbibed in company. After all, one is never quite alone aboard ship. 

The truth is that Irving does not mind his own company, in fact he cultivates it. His experiences on _Edinburgh_ with John Percy taught him to guard his intimacies closely. The 'holy ghost boys’, they’d been called then; the crew would cross themselves whenever Irving or one of his friends approached, or even genuflect if they thought they could get away with it. There would be sniggering during their prayer meetings, dead mice turned up squashed flat inside their bibles. By the time they returned to Aberdeen that summer Irving hated every one of them - and John Percy most of all. Since then he has kept to himself and held his tongue - better that they think him a bore than a figure of ridicule. He confides in nobody.

He has only ever had one true companion - a young man (but they were both young) who appeared quite out of nowhere one blazing afternoon in New South Wales. A man with a gentle laugh and hair scorched white as bone from the sun, a loud voice and a tranquil manner. If there was anybody on this earthly plane who Irving could call friend, it was that beautiful soul, four years dead.

John closes the bible lying splayed on the blankets of his berth and eyes his bottle of claret once more. No, he will resist. All things in moderation.

He touches the wings again. Whoever made them certainly had some skill, they are not the usual paste-and-paper props Irving would expect to find in a ship’s costume box, and it is a queer experience to have an object in his cabin that he has never seen or held before. After three years living amongst the same clothes, the same ledgers and pens and lanterns, there is something shockingly intrusive about the costume and the space it demands. 

" _Oh Maggie, Maggie May, they've taken you away,_

_Never more to roam alone down Canning Place_

_For you robbed too many whalers, and you poxed too many sailors…"_

The volume of the ribald singing increases as the door slides open, groaning where the wood has swollen into its runners. "Sir?"

William Gibson's sallow face looms into view, the light from the lantern in the passageway drenching his curls in gold. He is holding a length of thin rope looped tidily around one hand, which he holds out before him in offering. 

“Ah, Gibson, come in," Irving nods, turning away from the bottle, "close the door, would you?”

“I thought this might be just the thing, Lieutenant Irving," Gibson enters and draws the door shut behind himself without turning his back, raising the coiled rope with a small flourish. 

“Do you know, I think it might,” Irving gives him an approving smile.

Gibson smiles back and reaches across him for the wings, turning them over in his hands to assess the back. He nods, satisfied, “shall we try it then, Lieutenant?”

“By all means,” John stands with his arms out as if waiting to be dressed. 

Gibson threads the rope carefully through the rings at the centre of the wings and pulls it smoothly through so that the length is even on both sides. His fingers are long and lightly freckled on the back, nails smooth and round, they've been trimmed since this morning. He always presents himself well, Irving thinks appreciatively; he is always clean and softly spoken. 

“If you’ll turn around, sir?” Gibson now raises the wings. Irving obliges, facing his bed, and Gibson reaches his long arms over John’s shoulders, then around his waist to secure the rope, crossing the cords over to keep them steady. “Have you full-rigged in no time,” Gibson murmurs as he ties his knots, and Irving chuckles.

The wings aren’t heavy, but he feels them shift as he moves, the ropes tugging. The bible still sits on his bed, the ribbon protruding from the pages like a red devil’s tongue. 

“Which passage is it this evening, sir?” Gibson asks him pleasantly as he tugs the rope lightly.

“Acts,” Irving replies.

“Ah,” he places his hands on Irving’s shoulders and turns him about to check the front of the costume. Once again Irving does as he’s bid. Gibson surveys the rope with a professional eye. “Acts - Paul’s conversion,” he says, adjusting the wings to sit straight.

“Yes, very good,” Irving nods encouragingly. He had told Gibson to mind his bible, and it seems that the steward has followed his example, which is an unexpected triumph.

“Thank you, Sir,” Gibson doesn’t look up from his work but he smiles to himself. A firm yet gentle hand, Irving thinks; that is all most common sailors require. “Was it Paul who was converted on the road to Damascus, sir?” Gibson asks, inquisitive now, like a hound with its ears pricked, eager for more praise.

“Indeed,” Irving affirms, “ _And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest: it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks_.”

“What a memory you have, Lieutenant Irving.”

Irving feels a guilty pinch of pride - it is true, he does have an excellent mind for recollection. He can quote long passages from the Book, and he has never made a wrong calculation when it comes to the ship’s stores. 

“You must find it all the easier to stay on the straight and narrow, with all those verses in your head.”

Irving is about to answer when a cheer goes up in the fo’c’sle, and whatever calamity or clownery has caused it is roundly applauded. Both men cock their heads to listen, and when their eyes meet Gibson smiles bashfully and returns to his work tying the rope. 

“No doubt you’d rather be enjoying the evening with your mates,” Irving comments. “Getting up to mischief.”

Gibson shakes his head sharply, looking up again, his eyes stricken, “You needn’t worry on that score, Lieutenant,” he says with some force, “I have kept myself to myself, as you asked.”

“Of course,” Irving replies, taken aback. 

Perhaps it is the wine, but he had almost forgotten - not the beastly matter itself, of course, but somehow he had forgotten Gibson’s attachment to it. His behaviour has been exemplary since then, and John is satisfied that the issue is resolved. He hadn’t considered that his steward might now find himself without companionship. 

Of course, Irving can’t be blamed for that; it is Gibson’s own doing. Men who cannot control themselves ought to be isolated.

He straightens his back and the rope pulls tight across his shoulders, the weight of the wings shifts and chafes through his shirt. William Gibson may give the appearance of honesty and calm comportment, but of course John knows the vile truth. He has as good as seen it with his own eyes, and as much as he fervently believes that all men can be saved, Irving knows that some stains last. 

Questions like this - questions of moral accountability - plague Irving often. Can a man like Gibson, who has sinned - who has corrupted his own flesh - ever truly be forgiven? Can such appalling lapses in decency ever be washed away? Or does Gibson tremble for it still? In the same way that one glass of claret never fully satisfies; having indulged in the vice, does Gibson now feel the wretched ache of lust even more keenly than other men? 

Irving prays not, for if so they are all certainly doomed; even he is not above the frailty of the body. John knows what it is to ache, and while he has never indulged in sin with another, in his weakest, most private moments he has succumbed to his own carnality.

He comforts himself that at least he has never fallen quite so low as to complete the despicable act. The mind can triumph over the body, he has tested and proved it again and again, seizing back his hand before he can vent the filthy swell of heat between his legs. The taut, frantic sensation will grow almost unbearable, his sinful member crying out in displeasure - just a moment more, just one more stroke. But John can always resist it - in his spirituality he can raise himself beyond the fruitless whims of his body.

Some evenings are more trying than others, of course.

“I see we have made a mistake here,” Gibson says, leaning back again to consider his handiwork. 

“A mistake?” Irving blinks, momentarily confused.

“You’ll want your coat on,” Gibson gestures at Irving’s dark uniform jacket, draped over the back of his chair. John looks down at the rope crossing over his waistcoat and braces,

“Ah.”

“Not to worry,” Gibson shakes his head, “we’ll start again.” He reaches forward once more and begins to undo his knots. “It won’t take a moment.”

Gibson is not without charm, really; diligent and considerate.

“You must have your own dressing to attend to,” Irving says, almost apologetically as Gibson loosens the fastenings and the wings slide down his back. “Which costume did you choose?”

“A fish,” Gibson replies dully, “nothing so marvellous as this,” he removes the wings, cradling them as he set them back down onto the seat of the chair. 

“ _Ichthys_ ,” Irving says, mostly to himself.

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. His mouth is dry, as he turns to reach for his coat he cannot help spying the claret and the empty glass again. _Never drink alone_ \- but he is not alone. “Would you like a drink, Mr Gibson?”

“I would never presume…”

“Oh, come, we are going to a carnivale, after all.”

“Very kind, I’m sure, sir.”

There is only one glass, and Irving magnanimously decides that they will share - after all he is not the misery they all think he is, he is capable of affability when the situation calls for it. He offers it to Gibson first, who sips daintily, watching him with furtive eyes over the rim. John swallows two gulps, hands it back, and Gibson gives a small smile before drinking deeply himself.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, setting the glass back down inside the halo.

“Another!” Irving pours again. The singing in the fo’c’sle seems more distant, the tune unknown to him. He drinks, and as he hands the glass over again their fingers brush and he doesn’t feel any of the usual disgust. Forgiveness is the closest a man can be to God, he reminds himself.

“Have you seen inside the carnivale tent?” He asks as Gibson drinks, still watching him with clear blue eyes.

“No, sir,” Gibson swallows, “I assisted with the decorations, but we worked at it in the fo’c’sle and the marines carried it over this morning. I think it will be something to see, there has never been anything like it.”

“An Arctic assembly room,” Irving says dourly, not meaning to make a joke, but Gibson laughs.

“Quite right, sir.”

“I remember the first party I attended when I returned from Australia,” John finishes the glass, rolling the stem between his fingers thoughtfully, “the noise, the… vibrancy, I suppose - it all came as something of a shock.”

“I didn’t know you were in Australia, sir,” Gibson sounds mildly impressed.

“Yes, I farmed sheep in New South Wales for some months, if you can imagine that. Like the patriarchs of old; master of my flocks.”

“But you did not stay?”

“No,” Irving pours another glass. Why not, who will his steward tell? “I fell ill and returned to the navy. The land there was almost as gruelling as it is here.”

“I think I would take the Australian sun over an Arctic winter, if the choice was mine again,” Gibson comments offhandedly. His cheeks are beginning to flush too. Irving laughs, nodding in agreement. “Perhaps you will return one day, sir.”

“I do not think so.”

Gibson finishes the glass this time, and once he does he sets it down, leaning across Irving, their chests grazing for an imperceptible moment. The warmth which emanates from Gibson’s body is as pleasant and comforting as the man himself, and Irving, his thoughts now sweetened with memories of the golden Monaro sun and the slow and languid Wollondilly river, feels an impulsive urge to embrace him. He has not spoken of Australia to anyone on this expedition and the confessional hush of the cabin makes him yearn to be understood.

“Shall we get your coat on, Lieutenant Irving?” Gibson is saying, his own voice merry and rich from wine, the smile on his face no longer apprehensive. He reaches for the coat, and when he does John reaches back, taking him by the hand.

It is a foolish gesture, one he barely knows he has made until he and Gibson are both staring at each other in bedazed silence. The startlement is evident in Gibson’s face, his eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, pink and shining from the drink. His hand is thin, John can feel the fine web of bones, the skin soft at the wrist, rougher on the palm. He doesn’t let go until Gibson swallows and blinks.

“Gibson, I…”

“I know, sir,” Gibson says at once. He clasps John's hand in return. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down?”

Irving does, finding his legs unsteady he lands on his berth with rather a heavy thud, still bewildered by his actions. The heat in his midsection which he has been ignoring all evening makes its presence known and the flames are stoked again when Gibson raises his hand slowly to his lips and kisses his fingers. After that, he moves quickly, picking up the bible and setting it on its proper shelf. John watches, and does not order him to leave as he should, as he _must._

“Would you like me to…?” Gibson begins to lower himself to the deck and John feels a stab of heated panic, shaking his head, unwilling to countenance the suggestion. Gibson straightens at once, his face perplexed. “I’ve misunderstood you.”

John swallows and shakes his head the smallest fraction. The persistent tightness in his breeches coupled with the overwhelming warmth of the claret conspire against him. He stares up at Gibson helplessly, looking for direction. "I haven't ever…" 

"Ah," Gibson says, gently, a light of understanding in his eyes. He places a hand on John’s shoulder and presses him to lie down. "Just like this, then." 

He climbs into the berth beside John, fitting carefully into the narrow space and lying beside him. Their bodies press flush against each other, and John knows they have gone much too far already. “This is the way,” Gibson murmurs, unfastening John’s breeches so deftly he barely feels it happen.

“Gibson…”

“I _know_ , sir,” he soothes again. 

The lightest brush of his cool fingers sends an astringent jolt through every tendon in John’s body, his thoughts shatter into a thousand dissonant pieces. His heart thuds and his hips jerk forward in uncontrollable spasm. He reaches out and finds only the linen of Gibson’s shirt, and shutting his eyes tightly he grasps it tight. 

“All well?”

He cannot muster a response, he keeps his eyes closed to everything and nods his head, his hair chafing on the pillow and against Gibson’s shoulder. 

He handles John’s parts with such care, as he might handle fine china, or crystal. Nothing like the rough twisting Irving has applied in the handful of moments he has been obscene with himself. William’s touch is light and so precise that he cannot help leaning into the much awaited, long denied sensation. With each stroke he is satisfying a cosseted ache which John has guarded and held tight against himself for years and years.

A small agony begins to build, an acetic pressure in his loins - this is the moment he would usually pull himself back from the precipice. He groans, clenches his gut in a final futile effort to stave it off, but Gibson’s hand keeps moving, sliding over him, coaxing him forward and on and on... 

“Oh… oh dear!” John cries out, burying his face in William’s shoulder as the air leaves his lungs. 

He thought it would be loud, this final degradation. He expected howling, a wrenching emptiness or yawning cavern of hopelessness, the searing anguish and roaring retribution. But it is quiet; there is only himself and Gibson and the tender drawing out of something very soft and very peaceful. Waves of tempestuous radiance crash through him, finally breaking on that abandoned shore. 

When he opens his eyes he finds his cheeks damp with tears. He unclenches his fist from Gibson’s shirt, but doesn’t roll away, knowing that the moment he does the bewitchment of this unaccountable interlude will be broken forever. William releases him, drawing his hand away, along with the soiled handkerchief he discreetly employed at the moment of crisis. Conscientious, always. 

As Gibson moves, John feels his member hard against his thigh, and the revelation does not horrify him as it ought to. What has become of him? He feels still, so still, the weight of his limbs sinks into his bedroll. Perhaps he has lost his mind, but he presses tentatively with his own leg, hearing Gibson hiss quietly.

“Lieutenant,” he gasps, very low, “may I…?” his hands are already on his own buttons, and Irving nods feverishly.

He watches as William frees himself and wraps his long fingers around his own yard, pulling firmly, his hot breath gathering in Irving’s hair. John should like to reach out once more - to return the kindness of affection, the blessed relief of human touch, but he cannot bring himself to. He watches, and as the movement of Gibson’s hand quickens, as the noises in his throat grow deep and guttural, John presses a hand to William’s chest, where his heart is hammering in a fierce rhythm to match the stamping feet on the deck outside. 

William makes a sound like a cough and creases forward suddenly, pressing his forehead against Irving’s crown, before slumping, limp and panting. The handkerchief is put to use again, and the whole business is finished with. 

Gibson even buttons his trousers for him before he gets up, he takes every care that Irving is presentable. When John sits up, his head swimming and his ache pacified, Gibson hands him a glass of claret before quietly washing his hands in the basin. 

John drinks gratefully, his hands trembling. “You may leave, if you wish,” he says, his voice thick.

“Once you have your costume on,” Gibson replies amicably, taking up the jacket and holding it open as he has done a thousand times before. Irving stands, turns, slips inside. Gibson brushes his shoulders while John buttons the front. 

He turns around and the earlier scene repeats itself - Irving standing still, chin raised, Gibson portioning the rope, pulling and knotting in exactly the same places as before. They do not speak. A sheen of sweat has formed on Gibson’s brow which glimmers in the candlelight. 

“There,” Gibson announces once he’s finished. He steps back to admire it, then forward again to adjust the wings. Having him close once more, and the claret still on his tongue, Irving resigns himself to a final transgression, leaning in quickly to kiss Gibson’s hollow bearded cheek. 

“Thank you, Gibson.”

“Sir,” Gibson looks down, flushed with pleasure.

“I’m sure you’ve your own disguise to see to. I’ll manage with the rest,” he gestures vaguely at the foolish halo. Gibson nods and turns to open the door. The noise of the ship, of excitement and joliety invites itself inside, trampling everything. 

“I hope you enjoy the evening, sir,” Gibson says as he backs out of the cabin. He spares one last look, both knowing and forgiving, and draws the door firmly closed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
